


Make Me Feel

by Copper_Nails (Her_Madjesty)



Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018)
Genre: Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, Floor Sex, Grief/Mourning, Light Choking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex to Feel Something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 21:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14756837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Copper_Nails
Summary: Winning the Falcon back is supposed to fill the empty space beneath his ribs. Han told himself this the whole way to Lando, tells it to himself again, now: it’s immensely satisfying to stare up at the ship’s sleek (battered) lines, so he can stop thinking about Crimson Dawn, thanks; can stop thinking about Beckett on the cliffside and Qi’ra, fading like a star in the morning.





	Make Me Feel

**Author's Note:**

> Come on, AO3, pick a way to spell Qi'ra's name so I don't have to fix it later. Anyway: you're not here for my review of Solo or my critiques of Wookieepedia; you're here, I assume, for smut, and my headcanon that Han Solo, awkward pup that he is, is still the galaxy's bicycle. Enjoy!
> 
> Oh, also? Spoilers.

Winning the _Falcon_ back is supposed to fill the empty space beneath his ribs. Han told himself this the whole way to Lando, tells it to himself again, now: it’s immensely satisfying to stare up at the ship’s sleek (battered) lines, so he can stop thinking about Crimson Dawn, thanks; can stop thinking about Beckett on the cliffside and Qi’ra, fading like a star in the morning.

Lando’s face had been worth the blow jobs and credits he’d traded to get transportation to this humid, mudspawn planet, at least. Han chuckles and rubs a hand against the back of his neck before dropping his gaze from the _Falcon_. His own boots are drenched in brown.

Beside him, Chewbacca shuffles. Were he more humanoid, Han suspects the Wookie would have his hand under his chin; as it is, Chewie inspects the _Falcon_ like he wants to eat it, not just pilot it.

“Hey!”

Han draws in a tired breath. He doesn’t bother glancing over his shoulder; though Lando doesn’t seem to be the kind of man who would walk heavily, he thunders forward, now, ousted from his makeshift gambler’s den.

Chewie glances down at him, and Han offers him the slightest of nods. Lando isn’t impeded, then, as he comes forward; rather, Han shifts and allows the man space to settle at his side.

It is a gift, to see Lando Calrissian at a loss for words. Han feels his smirk growing on his face as Lando seethes and struggles to find the right thing to say.

“Problem, sweetheart?” Han asks, at last.

“I don’t like this,” Lando spits out. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks for all the world a prince instead of a scoundrel.

Han raises an eyebrow and forces himself to keep his answering shrug casual. “Fair’s fair, right?” he says. “As fair as fair can be, really.”

Lando drags a hand down his face, and Han feels his smile grow all the wider. “You are a bastard,” Lando tells him. “A menace. A whoreson. An absolute scoundrel.”

Han presses a hand against his chest and, idly, wonders at the happiness he feels building there. “Hey, now. Did I insult your mother? I’ll take all the others, but that’s a bit harsh.”

Lando flicks his wrist, flashing Han his middle finger and thumb.

Han laughs so long and loud that the noise of it scares several birds above their heads away. Chewie shakes his head at the both of them, but the low huffs of air coming from his chest are more than enough to assure Han of his amusement.

“Tell you what,” Han says, clapping a hand down on Lando’s shoulder, though only once he’s caught his breath. “Spend the night with your girl; give her one last look over. I leave in the morning, so you’ll get kicked out, but I’ll let you have a good bye kiss.”

“Of course you will,” Lando agrees, far less genial than he appears. He glares at Han, really glares, until Han takes his hand off of his shoulder. Then, with a flick of his cape, he stomps up the _Falcon’_ s gangplank. He glances backwards, once, and does so with such dignity that Han’s amusement nearly fizzles into something like respect.

Han scoffs, then, and only manages to chuckle again once Lando has disappeared into the bowels of the _Falcon_. Chewie nudges his side with one oversized arm and flashes him a look that Han thinks is concerned.

“No, I’m not worried,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. Qi’ra’s dice – his dice – are cold to the touch where they rest against the fabric. “You’re the one worrying over nothing. What’s he gonna do, shoot us both in our sleep?”

Chewie’s concern shifts into a glare.

Han tries to ignore the sudden drop of his gut. “Shut up,” he grunts. He mourns the loss of his good humor as he marches up the _Falcon_ ’s gangplank, leaving Chewie to growl and mutter after him.

The halls of the _Falcon_ are cool and already familiar. Han drags his hand against the metal as he goes, ears open for any sounds of distress – or, more likely, sabotage. The whole of the space around him smells like smoke and hyperspace; it makes him twitch, hands eager to caress the _Falcon_ ’s controls once more.

A flurry of swears echo down the hall. Han shakes his head and continues forward, following the litany of language into the captain’s quarters. He offers up half of a smile to Lando’s back and leans against the door frame, content to watch the other man pace in front of what used to be his cape closet.

Lando twitches as Han’s footsteps come to a stop, but he doesn’t turn to face him. Some of his frustration has cooled, or, at least, has been tucked away; Han makes a study of his face and finds all of the confidence he knows Qi’ra likely appreciated.

“Where is she, anyway?” Lando asks, dragging a gaudy length of cloth out of the closet. He lets it fall to the floor with a small frown that Han can barely see.

“Where’s who?”

“You know who,” Lando says with a sigh. He takes another cape in hand – black, this time, with red inner lining. “Did you kill her to get here, too?”

The galaxy – shifts. The air leaves Han’s lungs like Lando’s punched him; he staggers, then forces himself upright. “Excuse me?” he demands. “You think – Qi’ra? _Me_?”

The mere thought is inconceivable. Longing beats in his breastbone like a second heart; no matter how angry he is with her, he knows her, has known her since he was a child. Hating Qi’ra is as foreign to him as – as –

“Oh, please,” Lando says, looking back. His frustration has morphed, Han notes; he looks like a loth cat circling its prey. “Like you could have managed. But she is noticeably absent, and I must say, that is strange, considering how close the two of you seemed to be.”

Han steps into the room properly, propelled by the hurt welling in his chest. “Well,” he says, stopping only when he can feel the heat radiating from Lando’s body, “she had better things to do, and I’ve spent enough time focusing on the wants of pretty damsels. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lando replies, smirking.

Han is just barely taller than him, but he still takes great satisfaction in looking down on the other man. He doesn’t know why he takes another step forward, or another, other than that it looks damn good for Lando to retreat into dozens of folds of color with his hands raised in surrender.

“No need to be so touchy, Solo,” Lando is saying, somewhere beyond the pounding of blood in Han’s ears. “Though, what a surname that is. You’re a walking, talking, self-fulfilling prophecy, aren’t you?”

Han punches him.

Lando takes the hit grinning, though his head snaps to the side. He hunches his shoulders and goes low, wrapping his arms around Han’s waist in order to drive him out of the cloak closet. Han tries to brace, but it’s too late; he ends up sprawled on his back with a lap full of Lando, the man quaking with anger above him. He bats the other man’s fist away with ease and tries to rise, but Lando presses down, driving his left hand and hips into the effort of keeping Han in place.

“You’re such a kriffing asshole,” Han snarls up at him, inadvertently bucking his hips.

If Lando notices that he’s half hard, the man doesn’t say anything; instead, he aims his fist for Han’s face again. “Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, you’re clever, aren’t you?” Han replies, rolling his eyes. He takes a clip to his cheek and relishes the rush of adrenaline that fills his veins. He bucks his hips again, more deliberately this time, and lets the satisfaction of Lando’s pupils blowing out fill the empty cavities in his chest. “Got any better lines than that one, or are you going to disappoint?”

Lando laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, one Han knows he’d better appreciate were the man not on top of him – or, at least, not on top of him and seething. “Baby,” Lando says, leaning in and wrapping his hands around Han’s throat. Han clutches Lando’s wrists and tries to force him off, but in this, Lando’s grip remains strong.

“Baby,” Lando tsks again, “I make a point never to disappoint my partners.” He doesn’t squeeze, just applies pressure until Han is writhing beneath him. Then, as Han feels panic starting to meld with the arousal flooding his system, Lando leans down and kisses him.

It’s not a nice kiss. It’s arguably not even a good kiss. Their teeth clack, and Lando tastes like a dozen different kinds of alcohol, not to mention jungle sweat. But they kiss, and Han – doesn’t stop it. He lets Lando force his tongue into his mouth; bites Lando’s bottom lip of his own accord; lets Lando smear his blood onto his cheeks without once asking him to stop.

All the same, Lando takes his hands from around Han’s neck and places them on either side of his head. Han glares up at him as he pulls away and tries not to notice that his own hands have migrated to Lando’s hips.

Outside, he thinks he hears Chewbacca roar. Han ignores him.

“So,” Lando says – and his eyes are so, so dark. “You gonna do anything about this, Solo? Or are you just gonna sit there staring?”

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” Han hisses. He forces himself up on his elbows, then, and kisses Lando again.

Things – devolve quickly. Han arcs up into Lando’s touch, rough as it is, as Lando rushes to get his hands on Han’s skin. They exchange messy kisses, wet and bloody, as Han shrugs out of his vest. He shivers at the bite of Lando’s fingers against his skin; Lando is unnaturally cold, even in the jungle heat, and Han feels goosebumps rising in the places his hands have fled.

Vest abandoned, Han tries to lunge forward, but Lando grinds down against him. The world goes white for a heartbeat, maybe more, and then Han is on his back with one of Lando’s hands back on his throat.

“Behave, baby,” Lando says with a loth cat’s grin. “You think I ever bottom?”

“Fuck you,” Han grouses. He bucks upward and grins at the press of Lando’s erection against his own. Lando, comparatively, hisses and returns to kissing him senseless.

Han’s shirt is the next article of clothing to go, followed by Lando’s cape and its ridiculous clasp. Han’s fingers tremble over the buttons of Lando’s shirt, but together, they get it off in between kisses that leave red stains on Han’s skin. The hand that does not keep returning to Han’s throat palms at his cock through his tight pants, and Han is left gasping, pressing up into the sensation and groaning into Lando’s neck. Lando grins and grins, even as Han manages to throw his shirt to the side. Sweat pours down his back and makes it painful to rise from the floor, but all of Han’s instincts demand that he answer Lando’s caresses in return.

“You know,” Lando manages, smirking as Han presses into his touch, “we could just – move this to the bed.”

Han opens his eyes (not sure of when he closed them) and glances towards the plush thing Lando’s set up in the corner of the captain’s quarters. Distracted as he is by the constant stroking of Lando’s palm against his cock, he still manages a lopsided smile. “You think I want you staining _my_ bed?” he asks, just to watch the good humor sparking in Lando’s eyes turn into something smoldering.

“Don’t worry about me, baby,” Lando growls. He undoes the zip of Han’s pants and – and Han doesn’t know what, because suddenly the galaxy is burning, all because Lando won’t move his hand quickly enough.

Han bites back pleas for the other man to move and tries to ride the feeling, instead, but Lando edges him, squeezing the head of his cock through his thin boxers just to feel him squirm. Han can feel Lando’s own cock twitching inside of his pants, but the other man seems in no hurry to relieve the pressure that must be building there.

“You know, you’re pretty when you’re quiet,” Lando muses, leaning in to kiss Han’s jaw again. The blood on his mouth has mostly dried, but Han still feels his lips slide against his skin. He tries to respond, but his words keep getting lost somewhere between his brain and his throat.

He lifts his hips to help Lando tug his pants down around his thighs, followed without hesitation by his boxers. The sound he makes when Lando drags the palm of his hand across the skin of his cock is – unmaking. Han curls his hands into fists at his sides and tries to hold on, but it’s been an age since he’s been touched – he thought it’d be Qi’ra who he’d take in these quarters, but instead it’s loth cat smiles and Lando, white teeth and friction, friction, _yes_ –

He manages to choke out a warning before he cums, but it’s a garbled thing. Lando, Force or whatever bless him, doesn’t pull away when Han spills over the edge; he strokes him through the shivering, his grin growing all the wider. By the time Han’s able to press his ass back against the floor of the _Falcon_ , Lando is laughing.

Han forces his eyes open and ignores the pleasant wash of satisfaction in his bones in order to glare at the man. “Can I kriffing help you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Lando says, finally – finally – shifting off of him, “you can.” Without another word, he rises and makes his way over to the bed, where he makes quick work of his own pants. When he makes eye contact with Han again, the color in his eyes has been lost to the breadth of his pupils.

“Come here,” Lando orders him. “The rumor mill around here is awash with stories about your talented tongue. Consider this a test of the locals’ honesty.”

Han chuckles, a weak thing, and flicks him off from the floor. He’ll say it was the endorphins, later, in order to excuse the way he rises on his knees, shuffles forward, and starts to nose at Lando’s cock.

The rumors, at least, are not wrong – Han Solo may not have scored his lady, but he’s got a good mouth and few qualms about using it. He wraps his lips around the head of Lando’s cock and keeps it there, barely touching the other man while he uses his tongue to flick the vein on its underside. Within moments, Lando’s breathing has become labored. He reaches out and winds a hand into Han’s hair, tugging only on occasion. Han looks up at him through his lashes and smirks against his cock. Then, he takes Lando’s hips and moves.

It’s gratifying, at least, that Lando lasts about as long as he did. Han pumps his mouth up and down the other man’s cock until the hair pulling grows insistent, then makes good use of his tongue to ensure that Lando cums down his throat. Cum never tastes good, he knows – it’s too salty, overall – but he swallows and doesn’t let himself think about why.

Lando falls back on the bed, his chest heaving. Han wipes his cum from his mouth and falls down beside him, every muscle in his body shivering with exhaustion. He waits until Lando’s breathing evens out to open his eyes, idly hoping that the other man has fallen asleep.

Instead, he looks out into shining eyes and has to work not to swear at himself.

Lando just continues to grin. “I still don’t like you, Solo,” he says, voice raspy with bliss.

“Yeah,” Han agrees – tries to nod only to find that he can’t. “I don’t like you much, either.”

Lando laughs. The noise of it sinks into Han’s bones, settles in the horribly empty spot Qi’ra left in his chest and stays there. He doesn’t confront it, just lets it happen, even as Lando turns his head away.

“Liar,” says the conman.

Han reaches out and smacks him. His own laughter sticks in the back of his throat, but it’s written into his face – he just hopes that the light’s low enough that Lando misses it.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
